


MFU Shorts

by Kleenexwoman



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Magic AU, Other, they're all hipsters, transgender headcanon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:14:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 5,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1707809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is just a bunch of short schnibbets I wrote for MFU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire Drabble: Modern Art

They watch the fiery cloud rise above the city. Illya can almost feel heat on his face, cutting through the salt breeze. Beside him, Napoleon makes a strangled moaning sound. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Marinetti asks. The rogue THRUSH anarchist’s face is rapt, sincere. Illya imagines New York, now--monuments of steel and glass twisting into charred lacy tangles, pedestrians vaporized in an instant, their shadows etched into the concrete. 

He can hear Napoleon retching over the side of the boat. How odd, Illya thinks distantly. Napoleon never gets seasick. 

Marinetti glances at him and shrugs. “Not everyone appreciates modern art.”


	2. Water Drabble: Rusalka

Illya was seven, and he feared the rusalka in the pond. He saw her blonde hair waving like seaweed, her eyes warm as sky, decoys for the rotting monster he knew lay beneath. He knew she stretched out her long white arms not to hold him, but to drag motherless boys down into the cold. 

Through Moscow, Oxford, Paris, New York, he thinks he has left her behind. But he sees her treacherous eyes and strangling arms in the woman his best friend swears is an angel, like her name. Napoleon has no fear, and Illya knows he will drown.


	3. Earth Drabble: Clay

The inside of the Prague compound smells of dead earth and old paper, musty and choking. They smash the carefully sculpted arms and legs and torsos they find in the laboratory, showering the floor with clay. Illya rifles through sheets of crabbed Hebrew he knows are not innocuous as code. 

They find Professor Bergl’s severed head in a corner in the laboratory, mouth open in shock, three Hebrew characters--aleph mem tav--carved into the temple. There’s a trail of dry red splashes leading to the smashed door, but it’s impossible to tell by now if they’re clay or blood.


	4. Wolfsblood

It's a gorgeous night, warm and balmy, the scent of fresh hay in the air. The full moon is just visible through a hole in the roof of the barn, and it's being blocked out of Napoleon's view by a laughing girl with tousled black hair and big brown eyes. All they have to eat is stolen apples, but he doesn't think a room at the Ritz and a steak dinner could be any more luxurious. She knows how to kiss, and he knows how to kiss back, and it's all perfectly lovely until she bites him on the shoulder. 

Which wouldn't be so unusual--the girls who have clamped down on Napoleon Solo's shoulder in the throes of ecstasy number well into the dozens--but this stings, and when she lifts her head, there's bright red blood on her lips. "God," she growls, "you're making me crazy," and then she dives in for another kiss, coppery-tasting and wet, and that's all he can remember for a long time. 

When he wakes up, he's naked and sore, curled around her in a nest of hay. There are feathers all over the floor of the barn, fluffy white and stained red. His mouth tastes like rotting meat and feels like the inside of a pillow. He rolls over and vomits onto the dirt floor, bringing up more feathers, a half-digested chicken claw, shreds of raw meat and apple peel. 

Beside him, the girl yawns and snuggles into the hay, whimpering softly in her sleep.


	5. December 1: Angel

The day of the Transformation, Illya woke up in a room filled with light. In the bathroom mirror, he looked like an ikon, halo’d and winged. His gun had become a sword, and when he pulled it out of the holster it burned with a pale light. 

The streets of New York seemed to burn away under his feet, and he found himself striding over skyscrapers, taking steps that made him soar through the sky. Soon, he would report to a tweedy Yahweh smoking a pipe and scribbling in the Book of Life…but now, the sun and sky surrounded him.


	6. December 5: Mitten

Illya likes Michigan. It reminds him of home. It’s nearly May, and there’s still snow on the ground—just like in Kiev, summer’s three months of bad sledding. The factories that litter Detroit remind him of the factory his grandmother used to work at, when she’d come home late at night, her overalls stained with grease. 

Best of all, he likes the trick he’s learned to navigate its geography. After the mission is over, he teaches Napoleon to trace its rivers and highways and place its cities, guiding Napoleon’s fingers in the winding patterns of the land over his palm.


	7. December 19: Candle

Eight small candles in the window, lighting up the snow. THRUSH agents still in the house. How clever, Illya thinks, to make the signal something nobody would ever think of as unusual, not in this town. His hands are going numb, his fingertips already tingling. The agents will stay inside all night, and he’ll freeze out here. He can hear the sound of laughter inside. The last night of Chanukah is always a party, everyone invited. 

A small hand places the shamash in the middle of the menorah—THRUSH has left. Illya wiggles his fingers in relief and heads inside.


	8. December 20: Christmas Tree

Despite nasty rumors to the contrary, Illya thinks the island of Summerisle is most hospitable. He can’t think of a Christmas night more pleasant—a comfortable seat in front of a roaring fire, a hot mug of mulled cider between his hands. 

“Yule,” the landlord’s lovely daughter—Willow—corrects him, and she pours him another tot of cider. “Christmas is not for us. We celebrate the feast of Yule, here.” 

“What’s the difference?” Illya asks, and frowns when she laughs. “We don’t celebrate either where I’m from,” he explains, “and in America they call it both. It’s a disgusting orgy of capitalism, no matter what the name is.” 

“Yule has nothing to do with their god, or presents,” she says. She settles herself next to him, and raises her own cup. “Wassail.” After they drink, she continues her explanation. “It’s a celebration of the sun. On the darkest night of the year, we begin feasting and drinking…and tomorrow morning, we gather to offer our sacrifices to the sun, so he’ll come back.” 

“How charming,” Illya says, and swallows the rest of his cider. He glances out the window. The green is festooned with lights, and in the center is a great fir tree, hung with lanterns and shining ornaments. “And the tree?” 

“The throne of the Yule King,” Willow says. She smiles. “Your friend,” she adds, nodding to the tree outside, under which Napoleon is engaged in a snowball fight with a group of laughing, rosy-cheeked maidens. 

Both agents had been included in the great Yule Feast that evening. During dessert, a cake studded with fruit, Napoleon had bitten down on something hard—a silver coin. When Willow had spotted the coin on his plate, she’d stood up and announced to all and sundry that the Yule King had found his tribute. Napoleon was to be treated as though his word was law for the rest of the evening. Naturally, he’d promptly selected the comeliest of Summerisle’s young women to attend on him. 

“He’s having a very good time,” Willow says. “That’s good. He should be happy until the sunrise.” 

“Why?” Illya asks. “What happens at sunrise?” 

Instead of answering, Willow leans over and presses a kiss to Illya’s cheek. “I think I might go join them,” she says. As she leaves, it occurs to Illya to wonder at last precisely what kind of sacrifices the gods of Summerisle prefer.


	9. A Piece of the Afikomen for epicycles

Illya only vaguely remembers Friday nights with his grandmother. The drawn shades, the sweet braided bread she made. The long white candles, such a luxury that she would only light them for a half an hour. The words she’d utter before she lit them, nonsense words he learned by heart. It was a secret ritual between them, a secret language. 

He became good at keeping secrets. 

*

He’s drawn to the East Village at first, the colorful and bohemian mix of hipsters, artists, and musicians. He wanders the streets on his days off, assuming he’ll find a niche to fit into somewhere, in some café or gallery. Perhaps he expects too much. Conversations pall quickly, and even music can’t hold his attention for more than an hour or two. He’s not sure what he expected to find in New York, but perhaps it’s not music, after all. 

One Friday in March, he walks further south. The streets become less conspicuously colorful, more quaint. He sees women in long skirts and scarves, men with skullcaps and long, single curls cascading from their sideburns. New York is full of surprises, neighborhoods he knows exist but never knew existed like this. Little worlds inside of a city. 

He stops, hearing his grandmother’s words from an open window. Mouths the words along with the woman chanting them, almost unconsciously. It’s been over twenty years, and they’re somehow engraved on his brain, another remnant of his Baba he didn’t know he had. 

There is a cup for him inside--”Illya, Elijah, what’s the difference?” says the woman lighting the candles--and something clicks into place. 

*

It’s unseasonably warm for March. He’s invited Napoleon over for takeout Chinese, and they sit on the fire escape, sleeves rolled up, eating egg foo yung out of paper cartons. It’s been less than a year, but if their friendship has grown to the point where this is possible, then anything between them is. The meal isn’t the same kind of food he’s had the past two nights with the Goldfines, and the prayers and long recitation of the Seder is nonexistent. But the warm feeling of connection is the same, the knowledge that he is exactly where he should be. 

Illya sticks his chopsticks into the carton and turns to Napoleon. His friend is chewing slowly, eyes focused on nothing in particular. Sunset sometimes makes Napoleon thoughtful, almost melancholy. Sunset sometimes makes Illya thoughtful, almost nostalgic. They could sit in silence until it gets dark. Illya doesn’t want silence tonight. 

“Have you ever found out something about yourself you didn’t know?” 

Napoleon glances over at him, startled. “Like what?” 

Illya shrugs. “Anything. Something…big. Something you should have known. Something that makes everything else make sense.” 

Napolon gives him a longer look, more considering. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I think I know what you mean. New York can be a good place to find those kinds of things out.” 

“It’s confusing,” Illya admits. 

“It can be.” Napoleon squeezes his hand and lets it go. “But we’ll figure it out together.”


	10. Easter Egg for Sensine

When Illya asked where he came from, Baba told him, "I was feeding the chickens one day, and I found Mother Hen on her nest. And she was sitting on an egg so big, no hen could have laid it! So I took it inside and sat on it, and a week later it hatched, and inside was a baby boy with hair like a baby chicken. My Illyushka, my little chickie.” 

He didn’t think until a long time later that in their walk-up in Kiev, there was certainly no place for chickens. 

*

The THRUSH facility they liberate the egg from is familiar; Illya remembers being there months ago, being strapped down to a gurney, having his blood taken and his hair snipped and the inside of his cheek scraped. 

The egg isn’t really quite an egg at all, but egg-shaped. It’s as big as Illya’s torso, smooth and hard like plastic. It’s connected to two tubes that are pumping liquid into it. Illya and Napoleon disconnect the tubes and have to cradle it in their arms, between them. 

*

Illya works for a week on the egg, trying to open it up. The shell resists knives, diamond-tipped blades, a blowtorch, a sledgehammer, acid, and X-rays. No matter what he does to it, the smooth plastic shell is unmarked. 

He’s about to give up when Napoleon enters the lab. “Any progress on our little egg?” he asks. “Made any omelettes?” 

“Ha,” Illya says, “and ha.” 

The egg begins to shake. 

*

It’s twelve long, tense hours before the egg, such as it is, hatches. The smooth plastic shell slides open, and Napoleon and Illya hover over it. Viscous fluid pours from the egg, soaking their shoes. Neither of them notice. 

Illya is the first to reach out to touch the being inside the egg. It is a small body, curled up, thumb planted firmly in its mouth. As he touches it, a strange sense of connection runs through him, an almost vertiginous sense of familiarity. It has soft yellow hair, like a baby chicken. 

They cannot tell if it is sleeping or awake until it opens its mouth and starts to cry, a keening, siren-like wail.


	11. This Is Not a Fic, It's a Sandwich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nutritional facts: This fic contains 1040 calories and 52 grams of fat.

"You said you wanted to understand America." Napoleon nodded at Illya as they slid their trays onto the Formica table. "Well, this is the first thing you need to know." 

Illya glanced around the restaurant. The interior was a garish riot of red and yellow plastic. It was noisy and the floors were sticky, and everything smelled of grease and old coffee. Children shrieked and cash registers rang. He wasn't sure why they couldn't have stayed in the comparatively clean, quiet UNCLE canteen, but his co-worker's offer to pay for lunch had been contingent upon visiting this unpleasant place, and Illya hadn't had the stomach to refuse. 

He looked doubtfully at the paper-wrapped items on his tray. "French fries," he said, picking up a fry and twirling it between his fingers. It went limp. "Which are not from France." He bit into it. Illya had never known something could squish and crunch at the same time, could taste so deliciously salty and have absolutely no flavor whatsoever. If this French fry had ever been anywhere near a potato, it had long since forgotten its tuberous acquaintance. 

Confused and not entirely displeased, he opened the next item. "A double hamburger. Again," he added, "not from Hamburg." He picked up the thick sandwich and took a small bite. It was dry and greasy at the same time, vaguely meaty and vaguely cheesy but without any real presence of either. 

Napoleon held his hand up. "Ah ah ah," he said in mock-chiding tones, "wait for the dipping sauce." He pushed two small plastic tubs towards Illya, peeling the foil lid off each with elegant ceremony. "Barbeque," he said. "Ranch. You dip the burger in the barbeque..." He guided Illya's hand to the thick auburn sauce, dabbing the bitten edge of the burger in the stuff, before moving onto the whitish sauce that had flecks of green floating in it. "Then the ranch. It's a very potent combination. Not for everyday use." 

Illya gazed skeptically at the unappetizing spectacle of mingling sauces slowly dripping off the half-chewed burger. Keeping his eyes on Napoleon, he opened his mouth as wide as he could and slid the affected portion of the sandwich into his mouth, biting it off purposefully and chewing slowly. 

He was unprepared for the taste. The tanginess of the ranch seemed to coat his tongue, aggressively sour and cheesy, like nearly-spoiled cream. The barbeque sauce came next, sweetness and smoke dulling the sharp edge of the ranch, then assaulting his tongue again with a spiciness that set his mouth on fire. As he chewed, he could taste the fat of the burger, the softness of the cheese, the bland sweetness of the bun, the sudden sharpness of the pickle, and the omnipresent, almost plebian mixture of ketchup and mustard that Napoleon seemed so very fond of. 

For a moment, the mixture seemed disgusting. He leaned over his tray and prepared to spit it out, preferring to risk offending his new friend and the entire culture he was meant to immerse himself in rather than have the greasy gristle of its sustenance remain in his mouth. And then it all came together--the sharp, the sweet, the smoky, the savory, everything on its own louder and simpler than better food could ever offer, coming together in one mouthful to satisfy every tastebud on his tongue, a moment of intense authenticity created from a pure simulacrum. 

He swallowed and reached for his wax-coated cup of Coca-Cola, the spice and sparkle of the beverage a cool relief from the chaos he'd just consumed. "I understand everything," he said to Napoleon.


	12. Baby, I'm an Anarchist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hipster AU!

"Seriously," Napoleon said, "you voted for Palin? What's wrong with you?"

"What," Angel said, "you're a misogynist or something?"

"She's a nutcase," Marian said.

"She's a strong, driven woman with great values," Angel said. "Any chick who can defend her family with a shotgun is okay by me. Like, do you see Hillary Clinton showing up with her favorite rifle at those little Democrat pep rallies?"

"No, because she's not an fundamentalist nutcase who shoots wolves for fun," Marian said. "I voted for Hillary in the primaries, not just because she's a woman, but because I thought her strategies and positions were sound."

"I was Obama all the way," Napoleon said. "I even volunteered for the campaign. The first black man to EVER run for president? Hell yes, it's a huge step forward for our country. We need change, and we need a president who won't be partisan." He looked at Illya. "I mean, you did the same, right?"

"Didn't vote," Illya mumbled.

Marian and Napoleon stared at him. "Why the fuck not?" Marian asked.

"Are you kidding?" Illya said. "The democratic system is just a shill for big corporations at this point. The Democrats want a social safety net, but that isn't enough--we have to totally re-evaluate our entire economic system if we're going to eliminate inequality, and neither party is going to do that because they're all taking handouts from someone."

"So what's your problem with capitalism?" Angel snarled.

Napoleon held up his hands. "Whoa, whoa. Seriously, man, I think your position may be a little extreme. Couldn't you write in Bob Avakian or whoever?"

"The electoral college makes that totally useless as a voting strategy," Illya said.

"I wrote in," George said.

"Yeah?" Napoleon asked. "Who?"

"I voted for Anonymous," George said.

Angel burst out laughing. "You want a bunch of neckbeard pedos to run the country?"

"Are you kidding?" Marian said. "That'd be great. They'd replace the Stars and Stripes with Goatse or a cat macro."

"Actually, that's a good idea," Illya said. "Anonymous is the ultimate in organized anarchy. A collaborative and totally autonomous effort, organized voluntarily towards a single goal, with no hierarchal structure."

"God, you're such a Commie," Angel said.

"Excuse me," Illya said, "anarcho-communist. There is a difference."

"Sorry," Angel said, "I meant you're such a _fucking pretentious_ Commie."


	13. just because you're wearing a tie doesn't mean to say you're bloody important

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hipster AU!

Illya’s sartorial life pretty much revolves around the Salvation Army, by necessity as much as by choice. It’s even the way to get through to the U.N.C.L.E. offices—every day he checks in, he grabs a pair of jeans or an ugly sweater off the rack and steps into the third fitting room. Salvo’s his life at this point.

He doesn’t totally feel out of place in Del Floria, which Alex has informed him is the most exclusive tailor in the entire borough. It would be different if it was one of the shiny, tastefully decorated places that he sees riding around Manhattan, but it’s a dingy little storefront in the Bronx that smells like machine oil and cigarette smoke. Alex is springing for “official” suits for Illya, Napoleon, Marian, and George—his whole team. They’re pretty basic suits, black jacket, tie, and pants, with white shirts, but Alex has assured them all that they’re very special, customized suits with all sorts of little hidden pockets and tricks that will be very useful during the missions they’re going to be sent on.

Illya shrugs on the jacket and steps out into the fitting room. Napoleon emerges from his little stall. They look in the mirror at each other.

“The difference between you and me,” Napoleon says to Illya, “is I make this look good.”

“You look like a stockbroker,” Illya says.

“No way,” Napoleon says, “I look awesome. I look like a Reservoir Dog.”

“Mr. Pink,” Illya says.

“Mr. Black,” Napoleon says. He smoothes back his hair with his hand. “You can be Mr. Blonde. No, wait.” He points to the mirror and makes a gun shape with his hand. “And though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil.” He shifts position. “Motherfucker, do they speak English in ‘What’?”

“You are not Jules Winnfield,” Illya says, laughing a little. “Do the twist. Go on.”

“I’m Vic Vega? Really? No.” Napoleon does the twist anyway. “I look good enough to hook up with Uma Thurman. You know it.”

“It’s 300 miles to Chicago,” Illya says, “we have a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, and we’re wearing dark glasses.”

“Nice one,” Napoleon says. “Good movie.”

“Yeah,” Illya says. He studies himself in the mirror. “We’re on a mission from God.”

“Yeah,” says Napoleon.

They’re both quiet for a moment. Then Illya starts to skank.

“Pick it up now,” he says, “pick it up now, pick it up now, pick it up now.”

There’s a ringing sound from Napoleon’s dressing room. “Forgot my phone,” he says, and goes in to get it.

“Pick it up now,” Illya says to him.

Napoleon comes out of the dressing room, texting. “Alex says stop fucking around and come out, he needs to see how they fit us and show us the pockets for the cyanide capsules.”

“Don’t you hide those behind your teeth or something?” Illya asks.

“It’s not like a stick of gum,” Napoleon says. “I don’t know where you put them.” He looks in the mirror again and adjusts his tie. “Let’s go to work,” he says.


	14. fifth season?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a post I made on mfu-canteen.livejournal.com

Okay, well, my sleep schedule's shot and I'm bored. And I just got this digital antenna that's supposed to be able to pull in a signal from pretty much anywhere on Earth, so I was flipping through the channels, checking out awesome shit like Law & Order reruns dubbed in the native language of Tuvalu (weirdly hypnotic), when I came across a station from Uqbar that was broadcasting the "lost" fifth season of MfU, not overdubbed or anything, just with subtitles in Uqbarian. Swear to god, it was an entire marathon. I only managed to make it through about two and a half episodes before dozing off, but it brought back some great memories. 

Anyway, I was wondering what everyone's favorite and least favorite fifth-season episode was (if you've had the good fortune to attend one of the cons where they were screened, or managed to find a bootleg online, or obtained one of the reels through means I won't ask about)? I happen to love it because that's when the show got really surreal, especially after the grimness of the fourth season. 

*

I still have a huge soft spot for "The Spies Affair," the one guest-directed by Andy Warhol. I know a lot of fans aren't fond of it because of the relative lack of action, but I've always found it soothing to watch. My favorite part is the seven-minute clip of Illya making spitballs at his desk. And if you watch the scenes in the cafeteria closely, you can spot Andy ordering a bowl of soup and a sandwich in the background and slowly eating it. 

And I totally love "The Kitten with a Knife Affair". The inclusion of S.C.U.M. as the THRUSH splinter group was inspired and topical, and the sadistic part of me really enjoyed the scene where Napoleon is "overwhelmed" in Times Square by the SCUM-"brainwashed", sharp-implement-wielding UNCLE secretaries--it was very disconcerting and Hitchcockian. The twist with (spoiler!) Illya finding out that Alexandra, the head of SCUM, is his childhood best friend seemed a little contrived...but the end scene with him holding his knife to his own throat makes me tear up every time. 

My absolute favorite has to be "The Tower Affair," the one with a young David Bowie (this was before the name change, so he's listed as "David Jones" in the credits) as Darius Mason, the head of THRUSH. I was surprised that they made the romantic tension between him and Illya so explicit. Mr. Waverly is pretty bad-ass in that episode, too--I love the scene where he slaps the hell out of Mason with his glove. And, honestly, I think Mason's plot could have worked. 

My least favorite is "The Crystal Chain Affair." The parody of New Age spiritualism is surprisingly lazy, and the bits with Napoleon pretending to be a "Niburian" with his face painted green and bobbly antennae on his head is just cringeworthy. The other special effects were pretty good, though, especially the sparkly auras.


	15. Mundane AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really liked the Mundane AU I wrote about in my "Fifty Things" fic so I decided to write more of it.

Clara had tucked Madeleine, Brandy, and Benny into bed, and then announced with a yawn that she was tired and going to bed herself. Napoleon, feeling thoroughly awake, was left to his own devices. He wandered out into the backyard. It was a good chunk of land, with lawn furniture scattered randomly around the grass, a disused toolshed rusting in the corner, and a two-foot strip of dirt around the perimeter butting up against a white picket fence. He kept meaning to plant flowers or bushes or something interesting in the dirt, but neither he nor Clara had ever gotten around to it. Maddy and Benny kept digging holes in it, convinced that they’d find buried treasure.

"Stargazing?" The moon glinted off his neighbor Illya’s glasses. "You’ll catch your death, you know. So very cold." He gestured at his back porch. "Come over and have a drink with me."

"Don’t mind if I do." Napoleon took a moment to judge whether he could hop the fence. It wasn’t high, but he wasn’t getting any younger. He elected to use the swinging gate that connected their yards.

The Kuryakins’ yard, far from being the expanse of green that Napoleon half-heartedly cultivated, was neatly lined with rows of dirt. Bushy tomato plants rustled soundlessly in the warm breeze, and slim green vines twined around dowels stuck at odd angles in the ground. Napoleon sometimes saw Anya Kuryakin wandering around the yard, a kerchief tied over her curly dark hair, her stocky body clad in overalls and an A-line shirt. She would speak to him briefly and seriously about how her potatoes were getting on before whacking at a patch of dirt with a shovel. Illya claimed it was stress relief for her.

Napoleon sat on the poured concrete stoop of the porch, and Illya set two frosty bottles between them. “Here,” he said. “A cold drink for a warm night.”

"Beer? I thought you went for the hard stuff."

Illya shrugged. “It’s not a night for vodka; there is no chill in the air or the heart. Anyway, yours is of the “root” variety. I am assured it is very soft.”

"Thanks." Napoleon took a swig. "Although tonight I think I could use a drink."

Illya gave him a worried look. “Why’s that?”

"Bad dreams. That’s all. The last few nights. Drinking doesn’t make the dreams go away, it just makes the day easier to face." Napoleon looked at the bottle in his hand. "But that’s an easy out, and I’m not taking the easy out anymore."

"Ah." Illya nodded. "War dreams, again?"

Napoleon shook his head. “No, although it feels like it sometimes. I mean, there’s a lot of danger. Running, punching, shooting, hiding. Pretending to be someone you’re not. Hoping you won’t get found out. Facing imminent death…or worse.”

"Hmm." Illya sipped at his beer, and winced. "What’s worse than imminent death?"

Napoleon snorted. “You should know. You’re in almost all of them.”

"Really?" Illya propped his chin on his hand and turned to Napoleon. "And what am I doing in these dreams of yours?"

"You’re right next to me, almost all the time. Fighting and sneaking and…" Napoleon raised the root beer to his lips, swallowed until the sting of the carbonation burned his throat. "Other things," he finished lamely.

"Other things, you say."

"Nothing I’d ever really do," Napoleon said. "It’s just dreams. You’re not the same person you are in a dream."

Illya shrugged. “I’ve been having strange dreams, too.”

"Oh?" Napoleon stilled, the pit of his stomach going a little cold. "What are yours about?"

"I dream that I’m teaching class," Illya said. "My students are awful this year, by the way—I had one demand a higher grade on an exam he completely flunked just because he claimed he understood the cat story." He growled. "Schrodinger’s equations aren’t about the damn cat. But I’m standing there, in my dream, trying to explain to a classroom of these idiots about the cat. Always the cat. And I’m drawing the equations on the blackboard, I’m drawing the cat, I’m drawing the equations. And then the cat is real."

Napoleon squinted at Illya. In the moonlight, his neighbor’s hair shone, his eyes bright behind his glasses. His lips glistened, and Napoleon tore his attention away from Illya’s face. Just because he might have kissed those lips in a strange, surreal dream didn’t have to mean anything, he reminded himself. Dreams were only dreams. “What cat?”

"The cat in the box." Illya waved his beer bottle vaguely. "You know, you put the cat in the box, and there’s a radioactive particle inside, and the cat is alive and dead until you open it…and I draw the cat, and it’s quite clearly dead. Right there in front of me. And if the cat is real, then the equation must be real…and then the blackboard opens up. And then…" Illya shivered. "And then I am in the box."

"Wait," Napoleon said, "what box?"

"The box the cat escaped from!" Illya drew on his beer, tipping his head back and swallowing it steadily. When it was gone, he threw the empty bottle into the backyard. It disappeared among the rows of tomatoes. "But I always wake up right then."


	16. The Blue Hippo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya hangs out in a jazz club in New York!

At first, Illya is under the impression that the Blue Hippo is simply a jazz club. He’s been very interested in exploring the world of American jazz ever since making friends with some hepcat ex-pats in France, and he’s eager to hear the greats play in the smoky clubs in Greenwich Village. The Blue Hippo is the first club he hears about with a show that catches his attention on a night he’s not busy kicking bad guys in the head–Crazy Louie Wain is performing with Sasha Fierce, an unbeatable duet–and he gets there early just so he can get a good seat, right in front.

He orders a rum and Coke and settles into a seat, tapping his fingers on the tabletop, already looking forward to the show. He’d asked Napoleon, his new partner, to come–Napoleon expressed his regrets, explaining that he had a date with Pam from the typing pool. Napoleon was already proving himself to be quite the sensualist, and had asked Illya point-blank why he’d been three months in New York without any dates. “It’s a city full of beautiful women out there,” he’d said, “and you could easily have your pick.”

Illya was a sensualist, too, but in other ways. Where Napoleon luxuriated in the touch of a woman’s skin and the smell of her perfume, Illya lost himself in the smooth sounds of a jazz trio, or the taste and texture of one of the gigantic sandwiches you could get in so many delicatessans in New York. They were appetites that were easily fulfilled, did not require delicate negotiations with another party (beyond a heated disagreement over whether “Russian dressing” was an insult to Russian cuisine or not), and–most importantly–were very unlikely to get Illya arrested.

“Hey there. You lookin’ for some company tonight?” A slim black man in a neat purple suit sits down at his table, a half-smile on his face.

Illya carefully moves his drink out of drugging range and places his free hand, out of sight, on his gun–just touching it, just to make sure he can get at it if he needs to. “Not specifically, but you’re quite welcome to join me if you’d really like.”

“Not specifically, huh?” The man pulls out a chair, spins it around, and sits on it backwards. “You got here pretty early, just to sit here by yourself.” He drums on the table, then snaps his fingers and points at Illya. “You’re waitin’ for someone special. Got it. Sweet Sam did not mean to intrude.”

Illya shakes his head. “I wanted to get a good seat. Crazy Louie Wain is a favorite of mine.”

Sweet Sam smiles. “The jazz is pretty hot here, but you know that’s not the only thing that’s hot. Or did you really come here just for a concert?”

Illya raises his glass, a suspicion starting to form in his mind. “I certainly didn’t come here for the drinks.”

Sweet Sam laughs. “Yeah, Miss Vera pours ‘em a little light if she doesn’t know you. So let me be the one to buy you your next drink.”

Illya watches his new friend walk away. He’s quite pretty in a sort of aesthetic way, Illya thinks, and is proud that he can admit that without the slightest flicker of desire.

And then Sweet Sam comes back with two martinis, and he places a slim hand on Illya’s thigh and gives Illya a knowing, seductive smile that Illya has already seen quite a few times on Napoleon’s face–but when it is directed at ones’ self, it is much harder to react with cynicism. In fact, it is much easier to react with a smile back, with a bright spot of warmth somewhere in the middle of one’s chest, and with a hand sliding over Sam’s.

Illya has been told that America is much more tolerant of such things, more willing to look the other way, more willing to welcome those who fall through the cracks into her empty spaces. He did not believe it at first, but he is willing to suspend his disbelief.


End file.
